


the madness of limerance

by vacantpool



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, a lot of literature references that will always be credited!, but don't worry it's not gonna end like that movie, haha sorta like dead poets society but gay, high school age
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27568489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vacantpool/pseuds/vacantpool
Summary: "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways."-Elizabeth Barret Browning, "How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Ray Toro/Mikey Way
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	the madness of limerance

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! This is twitter user prorevvie here, thinking that she knows how to write when she absolutely cannot!
> 
> This idea came to me from the movie Dead Poets Society, directed by Peter Weir, and I was going to go crazy if I didn't write it, so I thought I'd share it with you instead of just keeping it in my Google Doc drafts to be forgotten!
> 
> I plan on updating every Saturday, so please stay tuned.
> 
> A BIG BIG BIG BIG BIG credit to @paper__kid, whose Twitter is @/living_ona_star, Connor, for editing these chapters and making sure I'm not being a huge idiot. I wouldn't be posting this without you, you're amazing!
> 
> *This fic takes place in the late 90's to 2000's, where everything sorta feels like a fever dream, so keep that in mind!*
> 
> Enjoy! :)

“I swear to God, that statue just fucking moved.”

“Dude,” Ray shifts his messenger bag further up his shoulder and pushes around some of the sludge and mud from the rain that had happened the night before with his dress shoes. “You’ve got to stop smoking so much.” 

“No, I’m serious. Baby Jesus just looked up at me from Mary’s arms and called me a motherfucker.” 

“Maybe he should- you did almost burn down an entire classroom.” 

Frank’s thin, black eyebrows raise, and he chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. Looking away from the statue in front of them and over to the school behind it- It looks like some shit that would come out of a fantasy; students filing inside in long school coats and hats that all matched the school colors. It’s brick, with pointed roofs, round windows, and a bridge that led to a separate wing of the school, with large, arched openings to look out from.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right about that one.” He says, turning his eyes away from the bell tower at the top of the school. The taste of a cigarette is faint on his tongue and he longs to strengthen it, but Ray is already swatting his shoulder lightly and nodding for him to follow inside. Frank’s trunk of clothing and necessities had already been dropped off just a week after he had been expelled from public school, so all he had with him was himself.

It wasn't particularly Frank’s plan to have set a classroom on fire, though he also wasn’t one to read labels on things before attempting them. The lucky fellow that had been graced the position of his lab partner had almost lost his eyebrows, but Frank had been left with a small amount of embarrassment and a ticket to a prestigious boarding school.

Honestly, it felt fucking rigged to him. West Ridge was not a school for the sick, spiteful kind of boys that Frank was apparently categorized in. It couldn’t have been- his next-door neighbor, Ray _‘I’m perfect’_ Toro, had been in the school since freshman year, and he was exactly the reason that Frank was walking through the large glass doors.

“ _He’s a good influence Frankie,_ ” Frank’s mother had explained. “ _He’s never set anything on fire before_.”

“You spoke to the Headmaster already, right?” Ray asks as they enter the foyer of the building, already pulling a red knit scarf from his neck. 

“Headmaster…” Frank scoffs, scratching at his tight dress collar. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I have.”  
  
“Great, then he should have matched our schedules up so I can show you around and everything.” Ray leads him through another set of doors, revealing a bustling room of students. all of them matching in the same, presumably itchy, argyle sweaters. There are students coming from every direction and at least four sets of wooden spiral stairs in each corner of the room. The floors are white and marble and Frank can hear every click of his peers’ dress shoes against it, echoing from the ceiling and then into his ears. 

“Right, what do we have first then?” 

“English.” 

“English? At seven o'clock in the fucking morning?” Frank groans out, his face turning upwards. His eyes are met with a crystal chandelier, and that about set him off. “Alright,” He turns, pushing the doors back open. Ray lets out a small, more sarcastic than humorous laugh, and grabs him by his backpack, and yanks him back in. He leads him to the far-right stairwell, almost pulling him up the stairs, and pushing past students that seem to have no regard for almost knocking the short boy that Frank is, over. 

“You’re gonna be fine! You’re lucky you joined during the first-” Ray stops walking suddenly. “What the fuck?” 

Frank’s nose collides with Ray’s shoulder blade at the top of the stairs. He tries to let out a noise of protest, but Ray is already taking the last step up the stairs and muttering something under his breath along the lines of _‘fuckingmichaelalwaysfuckingdoingthisshit-_ ”. 

Frank isn’t exactly sure what Ray is alluding to until he looks up at a long hallway of doors. Along a few of the dark, wood doors, are phallic shapes in bright red spray paint, still wet and dripping onto the floors. In the middle of the hallway is a tall, blond-haired kid with the can still in his hands, and his fingertips sprayed red. He swallows at the sight of Ray and uses his knuckles to push his glasses up further onto the bridge of his chiseled nose.

“Oh, hey Ray.”

“Did you have to do this on a Monday?”

“This shit won’t come off my hands,” is what the kid responded with, in a surprisingly deep voice. Frank lets out a snort, moving up to stand at Ray’s side in the hallway.

“Alright,” Ray sighs out, reaching forward and grabbing the paint can and setting it on the floor. “Frank, this is the dorm hallway. The English classroom is just up the stairs on the left side, Room 323.

“You’re abandoning me?” Frank punches his arm. “Dude-”

“For a bit. I gotta get this asshole out of trouble.” 

Frank turns his head to look at the blond-haired kid,“Thanks, asshole.”

“Mikey,” He smiles, trying to rub the red paint off of his hands on his jeans. “Nice to meet you, Frank.” 

“Jeez, is everyone here irresponsible?” Frank asks Ray, eyes darting between him and Mikey.

“You set a classroom on fire.”

_“Once, it was one-”_

“Get out of here, Iero.” Ray demands, “Before we’re all fucked.” 

Frank reluctantly obeys, walking in the opposite direction as them. After getting up the stairwell, the classroom is easy to find. He opens the door before he can think about being nervous, it swinging closed behind him quicker than he anticipated. The class falls silent, and his eyes desperately find the teacher’s, whose hand is still writing something on the chalkboard in perfect cursive. She has a hint of a smile on her face when she asks, 

“Name?”

“Frank, um, Iero. Sorry, I’m new.”

“And Frank, have you seen Mr. Toro around anywhere?”

“No clue where he is, miss.” He responds loyally, pushing his hands into his pants pocket. 

“Right, then find a seat. My name is Mrs. Bennett.” She finally stops writing and turns to look at him, inky, dark, coily hair bouncing behind her, almost as energetic as her smile. Frank nods, turning his head towards the full classroom of students. They all seem like a giant blob of argyle and gelled hairstyles to him, until his eyes reach the back of his class, to a mess of black hair hiding behind a book in his pale hands. 

He seems like the kind of guy who would leave Frank alone, so the seat next to him is where he lands, dropping his bag onto the floor and sliding into the seat as quietly as possible. He still seems to feel all their eyes on him, even as the teacher continues to teach.

 _“If you want me again,”_ Mrs. Bennett starts, _“Look for me under your bootsoles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good help to you nevertheless and filter and fiber your blood.”_ She crosses the room, leaning against her desk and moving her eyes over every single one of them. “Does anyone know who wrote that?”

No one answers.

“Walt Whitman, in the poem 'Leaves of Grass'. He completely abandons the syllabic verse of normal poems, and takes a more biblical, free verse approach, that somehow grips me even more. That brings up a good question. _What grips you in a poem_? What gives your heart that little pound? I want you to turn to your neighbor, and ask that very question." 

She holds her hands out, urging them to start, and Frank already feels nauseous. He knows jack-shit about poems or any literature for that matter.

He is surprised to find that the quiet kid with the bedhead is already looking at him when he turns to introduce himself, chewing on the corner of his thumb. He takes it from his mouth just for a moment.

“You new?”

Frank nods, scratching behind his neck for a moment. “Mhm,”

“Oh, that’s cool. I’m Gerard.” He smiles endearingly, only one side of his mouth quirking up, teeth not completely straight but in a way that actually flattered him. His school tie is loose around his neck, and the buttons on his dress shirt are at least one button uneven. “Why’d you come to West Ridge?”

“Set a classroom on fire…” Frank mumbles, folding his arms onto his desk in front of him.

“Oh, you’re that kid.” Gerard’s smile never wavers, and he finally sets the book he had been holding down. 

“So everyone knows about that?”

“Oh yeah, Ray Toro told me all about it. How much of an idiot do you have to be to mix potassium permanganate with-”

“Boys,” Mrs. Bennett interrupts from her desk, the smile now completely wiped from her face. “Less talking, more discussing.”

“I’m making friends, professor, isn’t that what you wanted me to do?” 

Frank’s eyes move slowly between the two of them. Her stern expression has wiped Gerard’s smile away, and he rolls his eyes, turning towards Frank.

“Okay, what’s your favorite poem?” 

“Oh, well,” Frank stops, trying to rack his brain. Of course, he had heard of Edgar Allan Poe and William Shakespeare, but he has never been one to pay attention to the deeper meaning of whatever the fuck they were saying. “I guess I don’t have one.” 

“Oh, come on, that’s bull.” 

“No, really.”

“You’ve got to have one. Stop me if you’ve heard this one,” Gerard clears his throat, sitting up straight in his seat and pressing his hand to his chest. “ _Generals gathered in their masses, just like witches at black masses. Evil minds that plot destruction, sor_ -”

“-that’s Black Sabbath, not poetry,” Frank interjects, crossing his arms.

“Who says it isn’t?” Gerard responds.

“Me, I do.”

“Okay, but does it make you feel something?

“I mean, yeah, it’s a good-”

“Then it’s poetry, no question about it.” Gerard finishes for him, crossing his arms and leaning back. “It’s something you find beauty in.”

Frank had to be honest, his mind feels slightly blown (and very confused) by the boy in front of him, but all he can think in his head was; “ _What a goddamn prick_ ”. He turns away, nodding, having no energy in himself to argue the point. He supposes Black Sabbath could be poetry, but he can’t picture Ozzy Osbourne himself calling it that. It felt like sacrilege. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask me?” 

Frank lets out a sigh, looking at him. “Okay, Gerard, what’s your favorite poem?”

“Good question, there are a lot to choose from.” Gerard’s eyes light up at the question. “I’m so glad you asked.” Gerard reaches into a black bag on the side of his desk and rifles through it for a few moments. Once he reaches what he is looking for, he slaps it onto his desk, rifling through pages of charcoal drawings and notes from various classes.

“Ah,” He says after a few moments, shoving the notebook onto Frank’s desk. “Read it.” 

Frank looks down, his dark and weary eyes mulling over the title, that is written in messy, chicken-scratch handwriting: _‘Mirror by Sylvia Plath’._

“Not to yourself. Out loud!” 

Frank is about to protest, but he can see the excited grin on Gerard’s face, so he amuses him, beginning the poem.

“ _I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see I swallow immediately, just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike -_ is this a riddle?”

Gerard doesn’t answer, only giving him a look of disdain.

“Alright- _I am not cruel, only truthful. The eye of a little god, four-cornered. Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over.”_

Frank looks up for a moment to see that Gerard has rested his head in his hands while watching him read, and his eyes flicker back down to the paper at the sudden eye contact.

“Now, um, _now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, searching my reaches for what she really is. Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. I see her back, and reflect it faithfully. She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. I am important to her. She comes and goes. Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.”_

“ _In me she has drowned a young girl,_ ” Gerard finishes for him, “ _And in me an old woman rises towards her day after day, like a terrible fish -_ Do you get it?”

Frank looks up, his eyes only half open as if he had been trying to read himself to sleep. “Not really.” 

“It’s a mirror!” He explains holding his arms up. 

“That’s the title, that was pretty clear.”

“The poet is a mirror! Have you ever held a flame up to your face?”

Frank nods.

“It changes how you look, with the shadows and the light. That’s why the mirror calls them liars, and the woman, she’s unable to look away from herself, drunk off her own vanity, and-”

Gerard wrings his hands, reaching one up to run through his hair. “It’s beautiful-”

Now Frank is the one staring at Gerard, amused and perhaps beguiled by him as he continues to rant on about the poem that Frank had barely tried to understand. He has this gleam in his eye when he talks like that, Frank notices, but it leaves when the bell rings for the next class period. 

Frank almost feels disappointed as Gerard stands up to leave, intrigued by the mirror and the ever-changing light.

“Hey!” He calls after Gerard once he stands, throwing his bag over his shoulder and coming after him at the doorway. Ray is waiting outside of the classroom, arguing with Mrs. Bennett, presumably over why he was missing from class. Gerard turns.

“What’s up?”

“Tell me more about the woman and the mirror.”

“I’ve got to go get my chemistry book,”

“Yeah, well, you can’t just leave me hanging like that-”

“Oh, _parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be ‘morrow_.”

Frank’s brain lit up. “I know that one! Romeo and Juliet, those two idiots-”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Frank. I need my book.” Gerard interrupts with a chuckle and walks in the direction of the Northwest staircase. Frank is left standing there, watching him leave, until he feels Ray’s hand on his shoulder, jolting him from some sort of fantasy.

“What was all that?”

“A friend,”

“Gerard’s a friend? It’s your first day.” 

“He likes me.” Frank shrugs Ray’s hand off of his shoulder and tries to hide the smile on his thin lips. “He’s cool.”

“Yeah, super cool. We’re actually good friends.”

“You are?!” He coughs out, and then clears his throat. “You are?” He repeats, trying to sound calmer.

“Yeah, Romeo, jealous?” Ray laughs, and Frank takes that opportunity to flip him off as he follows him to wherever and whatever their next class is. “We slip out frequently to go to concerts and stuff, with him and his little brother.”

“Concerts? Dude, you have to take me.” 

“Yeah,” Ray slings his arm around Frank’s shoulder. “Because I’m dying to see how this plays out.”

“How what plays out, asshat?”

Ray ignores his question, sighing out a quote from a Shakespeare play while giggling like he’s still in first grade. 

“ _Romeo, o’ Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo_?”

“Alright, I’m finding my own way to this class.” Frank hides the amused smile painted on his face and pushes Ray’s arm off him. He moves forward in the hallway, turning a corner, though he isn’t sure where he’s going.

Although Frank is lost in the hallways of his new school, he knows he’s found something that he hasn’t had in a long time.


End file.
